


Laundry Room

by beautlouis



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Banter, Flirting, Fluff, Humor, Laundry, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Sexual Tension, Slow-ish burn, Smut, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-14 20:57:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15397296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautlouis/pseuds/beautlouis
Summary: The third Wednesday of the new year, Louis finds himself in the laundry room, just as he was the last Wednesday and the one before that. He’s doing pretty well with his New Year’s resolution. The only problem so far is the company he finds in the laundry room. It seems that it’s just him and one other boy who’ve chosen late Wednesday nights as prime laundry-doing time. That wouldn’t be a problem except for who the other boy is.He’s seen this boy around; it’s hard to miss the long-legged, long-haired dream that lives in Louis’ complex. He likes to wear very sheer shirts and very high boots; he is incredibly fucking gorgeous and yeah, Louis’ noticed him but he’s never spoken to him. Until tonight, apparently.[Louis and Harry are both students living in the same apartment complex. They end up having the same laundry night and time. Louis can't stop staring at Harry and he can't figure out why Harry consistently points out Louis’ inside-out shirts, and his untied shoes, and messy hair. Enter slow burn-ish flirting, banter, awkwardness, and a lot of laundry.]





	Laundry Room

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah...so a few months ago I was pretty sure I was never going to publish again, and then I got really motivated to finish my other incomplete fic knock knock, i love you, and so I went, as per usual, to write a bit on my warm-up piece (this). I've been using this piece as a warm-up for close to two years, and I never thought anything would come of it, since the original idea felt so vague. Then, I got whisked away while preparing for kkily (which is still going to be finished, I swear!) and here we are. 
> 
> Unlike most of my fics, there is only one (1) sex scene and it is at the very end. It's not skimpy by any means but the majority of the fic is just Harry and Louis flirting and stumbling all over each other.
> 
> Follow me on my tumblr [here](http://thelovejandles.tumblr.com/)!

By the time Louis moved out from home and found a place to live on his own while going to school, he hadn’t made a New Year’s resolution in a few years. It lost its novelty, and he had wised up to the harsh truth that no one really keeps their resolutions _anyway_ , and it was a silly reason to set yourself up for failure.

This year, however, it’s just him in his shit flat in his shit complex, no roommates hovering around or numerous younger siblings underfoot, and he’s in his room third year of uni. He doesn’t even have a boyfriend with whom to compromise his life choices (which, Louis tells himself, is a good thing, freedom and self-expression and all that. He’s very lonely). So this year, Louis decides fuck it, he’s going to pick a New Year’s resolution and he’s going to _keep it_. Louis had decided that it would be smarter to pick something doable, something small but significant for him. Something that won’t be a guaranteed failure like finding a high-paying job and renting a house, for instance. He’s trying to be mature and reasonable. So he picks...laundry. It’s not like Louis doesn’t do his laundry ever, it’s just that he does it when he runs out of pants at seven in the morning on the way to his early literature class and has to go commando.  

Thus, Louis’ New Year’s resolution is doing laundry regularly. At least once a week; that’s the goal he’s set. At first he’d chosen Saturday, end of the week and a free day for him, but then he’d realized that because it was a free day he’d probably never actually get off his arse and do it (even though the laundry room is just down the hall from his own flat).

Instead, he picks Wednesdays. Wednesday is laundry day. He’s committed to this.

\--

The third Wednesday of the new year, Louis finds himself in the laundry room, just as he was the last Wednesday and the one before that. He’s doing pretty well with his New Year's resolution. The only problem so far is the company he finds in the laundry room. It seems that it’s just him and one other boy who’ve chosen late Wednesday nights as prime laundry-doing time. That wouldn’t be a problem except for who the other boy is. He’s seen this boy around; it’s hard to not miss the long-legged, long-haired dream that lives in Louis’ complex. He likes to wear very sheer shirts and very high boots; he is incredibly fucking gorgeous and yeah, Louis’ noticed him, but he’s never spoken to him. Until tonight, apparently.

“Your shirt is inside out,” comes a syrupy slow voice from near his left shoulder.

Surprised by the abrupt break in the polite silence of the past two laundry nights, Louis turns his head in the direction of the voice, the pretty boy, and raises his eyebrows. “Sorry?” He looks down to the item of clothing he’s pulling from his dirty laundry basket. Sweatpants.

“Your shirt,” the boy repeats, this time stepping close enough to brush a few finger tips over the edge of Louis’ shirt sleeve. “The one you have on right now. It’s inside out.” The boy steps back. “I’m Harry.”

 _Harry_ has very green eyes and coral pink nails.

Louis look down at his shirt and tugs it so he can examine the seams on the sides. _Fuck_. Has he been like this all day? It’s 9 o’clock at night now, though, so there’s no point in worrying about it. “Oh, um. Thanks, mate.” He doesn’t really know what else to say. “I’m Louis.”

There’s a pretty little smile, and _a dimple holy shit,_  from Harry. “Welcome,” he responds simply, before shuffling back over to the machine he’s been piling his clothing into. Louis watches him go and sees that he’s sock footed, and fights back a giggle. Then he watches Harry deftly wrap those long curls into a tiny bun and doesn’t feel like giggling at all.

\--

The next Wednesday, Louis walks in with his laundry bin and sees Harry standing next to a washer in the far corner without appearing to be actually doing anything. He sets his basket onto the large table in the center of the room and Harry does a funny little twitch at the sound and suddenly jumps into action himself, dropping items into the washer one by one.

“Hullo,” Louis says, just for something to say.

“ _Hi_ ,” Harry replies, drawing out the syllable and briefly pausing his movements to grin at Louis. His hair looks especially thick and shiny today, like he did something special to it. Harry’s so incredibly, achingly pretty. It’s mind-numbing and distracting.  

Louis shakes his head at himself and starts digging out the white clothing in his bin.

“Your hair is sticking up on one side.”

What. “What?” Louis says, facing Harry again, who has started his load and is perched atop the large table in the center of the room, apparently planning to wait out the hour here rather than nip back to his flat.

Harry starts swinging his feet and smirks. “Just there,” he says, clearly and slowly, gesturing with a hand to Louis’ right side. “Your hair is sticking up funny.” He brings his hand to pet vaguely over his own hair in some kind of demonstration.

Louis immediately rakes his fingers through his hair self-consciously. “Um,” he say, quite eloquently. Who points out a veritable stranger’s messy hair?

Apparently oblivious to the strangeness of his own remark, Harry continues on mildly. “Yeah, when I had short hair it’d get wild all the fuckin’ time like that. Sticking up and shit. I mean, it gets frizzy sometimes now, and tangled a bit. But I didn't fancy the sticking up so there’s that.”

Louis can feel his mouth twitching. Harry’s a rambler. “You had short hair?” He says, eyeing Harry’s admittedly long and luscious locks.

“Oh, um,” Harry chirps, scratching at his knee. “Not really _short_ , but definitely shorter. Been growing it out for awhile now.” He looks rather proud of himself as he says it. “No more sticking up. Like yours. Maybe you could grow yours out.” Harry giggles, amused at himself.

“Well,” Louis says, “I wouldn't look half as good with my hair down to my ass as you do, so maybe not.” Wait--

Harry is smirking, an edge of delight in his green eyes. “Look as good as me?”

Shit, shit, shit. “I-I just meant that, um. You could double for Rapunzel, you know. Disney princess and all that.” Louis wants to jump into the fucking washing machine.

Harry is still smirking. “Right.”

Louis clears his throat and tosses the last couple white items into the washer, before adding in the bleach and starting the machine. He’s hyper aware of Harry’s presence as he moves.

He’s about to run off to his flat and die while this load finishes when Harry speaks up again. “Dunno, think you’d look as good as me with long hair. Might even look better than me.” 

Louis whips around to stare at Harry, who would look cool as a cucumber if it weren’t the pink blush spreading quickly across his cheeks. “What?” Louis chokes out dumbly.

“Not that you don’t look incredible with your hair as it is now, of course,” Harry says, dimple popping. His cheeks are actually red now but his voice is even and he looks relaxed.

Louis gapes at him, trying to figure out if this is flirting, and trying to remember how to flirt.

Harry stares at him for a moment then hops off the table and starts to head out of the room. “Think I’ll make myself some ramen while I wait.” He walks out the doorway and out of Louis’ sight.

It takes Louis a moment but he decides to head back to his own flat as well. Despite going back to change his load to the dryer and then again to bring it back to his flat, Louis doesn't run into Harry again that night.

\--

Louis doesn't see Harry again the next two Wednesday nights and he’s just resigned himself to thinking Harry’s changed his laundry night when, on the third Wednesday since the possible-flirting incident, Louis walks into the laundry room to quite a sight.

It’s Harry leaning casually against a running dryer, with a very old copy of National Geographic in his hands, eyes narrowed intently upon something on the page. He also happens to be wearing a very tiny pair of red gym shorts. Like, Louis can see almost the entirety of the length of his thighs, and what little is covered by red cloth is covered very, _very_ tightly. There’s a too-small Ramones t-shirt pulling tight across his shoulders.

Louis doesn’t actually drop his laundry basket in shock, but he thinks if his life were a literal sitcom, he would have. “Harry,” he blurts out.

“Oh, hello,” Harry says, glancing up briefly at Louis, before looking back down to his magazine.

Louis walks over to a washing machine across from Harry and begins dumping in his dark clothing. He wants to say something but he’s not sure what and Harry seems resolutely absorbed in the National Geographic content. He turns to grab his detergent and--he fucking forgot it. He forgot detergent on laundry day. Grumbling to himself, he turns to go back to his flat down the hall when the low timbre of Harry’s voice sounds again.

“Forget your laundry soap?”

Louis looks at Harry, surprised.

“I mean,” Harry stumbles, eyes shifting between the washing machine still open with Louis’ clothes and Louis himself. “I just noticed. You know, with the machine open and you, um. Leaving.”

Louis raises his eyebrows.

Harry looks vaguely desperate. “Your shoelace is untied.”

Thrown by the sudden change in topic Louis looks down at his feet. Huh. It _is_ untied. “Uh,” he says. He glances back up at Harry and sees Harry holding out his own bottle of laundry detergent.

“You can use mine,” Harry says, eyes round and sweet. “Free of charge,” he adds, smirking slightly.

Louis considers rejecting the offer and going to get his own, but that would be rude, wouldn’t it? “Thanks, mate,” Louis says, taking the bottle. “Owe you one.” Harry’s fingers brush Louis’. He has very warm skin and bright yellow painted nails. Louis dumps the correct amount of soap in and starts the machine, before turning to give Harry his detergent back. Harry is watching him, lip caught between his teeth. “Thanks,” Louis says again, eyeing Harry’s mouth.

Harry nods and takes the bottle, setting it down on the washer next to him. “Are you going to fix your shoelace?” He’s forgone the National Geographic magazine in favor of twisting his fingers together...nervously?

“Uh,” Louis says, _again_. Why can’t he fucking speak?

“I can do it for you,” Harry pipes up, looking strangely determined.

“Wh--” Louis starts, taken aback, but Harry already moving closer to Louis. He just goes ahead and sinks to his knees, fingers deftly working the shoelaces of Louis’ left shoe into a neat knot.

Louis doesn't _stare_ at the curve of Harry’s thigh in his red shorts as he kneels; he just _notices_ that the muscles of Harry’s thigh seem to be testing the strength of those fucking red shorts. He’s just _wondering_ if physically, Harry’s thigh can burst the seams. He’s not staring.

“All done,” Harry informs him cheerfully, leaning back on his heels and staring up at Louis. Why the fuck isn’t he standing up? Louis is pretty sure he’s half hard and he really doesn't need Harry to notice that. “I’m comfortable on my knees,” Harry says seriously, as though he’s read Louis’ mind and this is a normal thing to mention.

“Oh,” Louis chokes out, fighting back an existential crisis in his mind. “Thanks for the, um. Tying. My shoe.” He winces at himself.

“No problem, mate!” Harry replies, still fucking kneeling there. His hair is extra tousled today, and it keeps falling into his eyes. Louis wants to touch it desperately.

“I like your shorts,” Louis blurts out. Oh, God, what the fuck.

Harry’s eyes grow very wide, and his mouth opens to reply when there’s a sudden buzzing beep echoing in the room. “Oh, that’ll be my stuff!” Harry announces. He jumps up and scurries over to the dryer beeping, and starts digging out his clothes and dumping them into his own basket. Louis, for his part, is still fighting back an old-fashioned, Victorian-era fainting spell. Why did he bring up the shorts?  

“Well,” Harry says, once he's got everything into his basket and picked it up. “They’re a bit tight but I’m glad you like them.” He laughs, loudly, and leaves the room.

Louis processes that he was talking about the fucking shorts and then very carefully sinks down to sit on the floor, knocking his head back against the front of a washing machine. “ _Fuck_.”

\--

The next Wednesday, Louis wanks twice before he goes to the laundry room that night. Just to be safe, is all. He walks into the laundry room, feeling quite relaxed with a basket of bed sheets, to see Harry standing there wearing a shirt that’s more unbuttoned than buttoned and skintight black jeans.

“Louis!” Harry crows upon seeing him. He’s standing at the large table and, Louis sees, he has several containers of what appears to be Chinese food in front of him.

Setting his basket down on top of a washer, Louis turns to Harry. “Harold,” he says, fighting back a giggle. “Are you supposed to bring food into the laundry room?”

Harry shrugs, unbothered. “Dunno, was hungry.” He clicks the chopsticks between his fingers together. “I got two pairs of chopsticks.”

“Hmm?” Louis hums, dragging his sheets into the washing machine and trying to not think about the fact that he’s getting vaguely turned on just by Harry’s presence despite the fact that he wanked off _twice._ “Did the take out place fuck up, then?”

“No, I asked for an extra pair,” Harry replies, voice a little bit higher than usual.

Louis adds detergent and starts the machine. “Why? You break them easily or summat?” He faces Harry and is surprised to see Harry looking at him like he's a bit dense.

“ _No_ ,” Harry sniffs. “I handle chopsticks perfectly, thanks. I just thought, you know,” he looks suddenly bashful; it's very sweet. “Maybe I'm not the only one that gets hungry late at night?” He holds the second pair of chopsticks out to Louis. “You like Chinese food?”

“Oh!” Louis says, because apparently he is a bit dense. “I mean, yeah, I do. But you didn't have to do that, Haz.” The nickname slips out on its own and Louis can feel his cheeks warming slightly.

Harry beams at him and nudges the chopsticks into Louis’ hand. “It’s really no problem, I always over-order anyway and I don't have any room for leftovers in my mini fridge. Go on then, Lou. This Chinese place in amazing.”

 _Lou._ Biting back a grin, Louis dips the chopsticks into a container at random and ends up nipping a bit of broccoli beef. He pops it into his mouth just as his cell buzzes behind him. Chewing casually, Louis turns round to check the notification--just a reminder for an exam in two days--then returns to face Harry and very nearly chokes. In the less than ten seconds it took for Louis to check his phone, Harry’s pulled off his fucking shirt. He’s now just standing there, slouched against the table, unbothered as can be. To contribute to the visual that's quickly creating a tragedy of Louis’ self control is the way Harry’s delicately maneuvering the chopsticks to pick up bits of food. It’s--it’s probably just because Louis already wants to fuck Harry seven ways to Sunday, but the ease and precision with which Harry’s long (so fucking long), fine-boned but strong, fingers handle the cheap wooden sticks is somehow _attractive_. “You’re not wearing a shirt,” Louis says weakly, as his mind grapples with this reality.

Harry _sincerely_ looks _surprised_. “Oh,” he says, in a tone generally associated with commenting on the fucking weather. “Yeah, ‘s a new one,” he says, gesturing to wear the shirt sits at the other end of the table. “Didn't want to get it messy.” His eyebrows knit slightly. “Not that I’m like, a habitually messy eater, or summat. Only the thing cost me at least two weeks worth of ramen packs, so I’m not risking anything yeah?”

Louis gapes at him.

Shrugging one shoulder and popping a bit of chow mein into his mouth, Harry chews, swallows, and continues. “And full truth, I do get a bit sloppy if I’m like, distracted.” He lays his chopsticks across one of the food containers and licks delicately at the tip of his pinky, then takes a sip from the drink in front of him.

Louis wonders what could possibly be distracting Harry here, in this empty, run-down laundry room but can't procure the brain power to ask. “Oh,” Louis says blankly. He's trying to desperately not to _stare_ , but Harry’s jeans sit very, very low on his hips. Louis can see just the hint of sparse curls at the edge of his waistband, like he's not wearing _pants_. His tummy shifts with obvious muscle every time Harry moves, and there's the slightest swell of softness over it, just enough for Louis to nip at, if he could. _Jesus_.

“Does it bother you?” Harry says, finally sounding vaguely concerned, like he's realized that perhaps this situation and conversation isn't on caliber with discussing how foggy it is outside. Louis wonders how many minutes have passed as he failed to not stare.  

He can't tell Harry it bothers him because not only is that just on principle the wrong word for what it's doing to him, but he neither wants Harry to think Louis’ put off by his body nor rude about Harry’s comfort in his own skin. “No,” he says, relieved that his voice is not entirely shaky. “Nah, mate. Two weeks of ramen went into that shirt, totally get it.” He offers a smile and receives those dimples in return.

They continue to nibble at their Chinese food, in relative quiet, which means that Louis is highly aware of how Harry breathes--which makes him feel both a bit of a creep and gently endeared. Harry’s a very soft breather, quiet, often silent; he hums though, very subtly and probably unconsciously, sometimes, as if in reaction to a thought. It's always a whisper of a hum, carried on an exhale, only a moment of sound. He sighs too, more frequently than other people might, but much softer as well. Louis feels like more of a creep the longer he listens and catalogues the sound of Harry’s breath, and begins to eat more hastily in an attempt to drown out the sound. 

“Is that good, then?” Harry asks suddenly, forcing Louis to look at him. His face is slightly bemused and Louis realizes that his brilliant plan must have made the sounds of his chewing audible to Harry as well. He winces internally and shrugs a shoulder in affirmation, before swallowing his mouthful of chow mein.

“Yeah,” he says, “it’s excellent.” Louis means it truthfully, though the next bite he grabs he makes sure is smaller and chewed more politely.

The side of Harry’s mouth twitches and there’s a glint in his eye that makes Louis wonder if Harry hasn’t caught on more than he’s saying. “Good,” Harry replies, rooting around in a carton of orange chicken himself.

Louis considers how weird it is the that the slight film of sauce and grease the Chinese food is leaving across Harry’s lips makes Louis want to kiss him more instead of less. Probably pretty fucking weird. Eventually, Louis’ buzzer goes off and he awkwardly brushes his hands off on his jeans before unloading the contents of the washer into the dryer. When he turns round, Harry has tugged his shirt back on, and is leaning with his hip cocked against the edge of the table, tugging at his lip with his brow furrowed like he’s concentrating on something especially serious.

Louis suddenly notices that Harry doesn’t have washer or a dryer running at the moment. “Uh,” Louis starts, feeling like he’s been evaluated for something and cursing himself again for being unable to speak properly in Harry’s presence.

“I’m gay,” Harry announces abruptly, his tone no less casual than their small talk over food. Louis is at once very glad Harry’s put his shirt back on. “I mean, I don’t think it’s a secret,” Harry elaborates, “what with the nail polish and the shirts and whatever.” His frown deepens even further. “Not that that’s like a prerequisite for being gay, though. Just if you were thinking it, you were right.”

It’s strange; the rambling might suggest nervousness, insecurity even, given the topic, but it seems no different from his tendency to ramble in general and he looks entirely comfortable with this proclamation. In fact, Louis would venture Harry’s more preoccupied with conveying some sort of deeper message than anxiety over coming out. Louis admires his easiness with the news; he hasn’t been closeted himself in years and he’s more than fine with people knowing, but this comfortability is still impressive. Louis realizes he still hasn’t responded and that Harry has taken to buttoning up his shirt entirely in the silence, as though self-conscious. “Well,” he says, shrugging, “hate to bring down your thunder, but so I am, so.” He smiles to let Harry know he’s teasing rather than being malicious.

Harry dimples very sweetly, and then runs a hand through his hair very attractively. “Okay,” he says simply. He makes a half step towards Louis then seems to retract whatever his intention was. “I’m gonna,” he jerks his head towards the doorway.

Louis feels both disappointed and relieved, nodding in hopefully casual acknowledgement. Harry fiddles with his shirt some more, so that a few buttons fall back open. Louis can see that he's perspiring slightly even though the temperature hasn’t changed in the room.

“You’ve got some—“ Harry gestures to the corner of his own mouth and Louis copies him, finding a tiny fleck of fried rice there and blushing slightly before wiping it away.

Harry smiles again and steps backwards a few feet before turning round and heading out the door.

Louis notices he’s neatly folded the food back up, leaving it for Louis, and that Harry never took out clothes or a basket, as if he hadn’t brought laundry at all that day. Fighting his propensity to overthink, Louis shakes his head and opens his phone to fuck around on social media while he waits for his wash to finish.

\--

It feels different somehow, the next Wednesday—not in an uncomfortable or bad way, but as though he and Harry have jointly crossed the line from awkward strangers doing laundry together (and occasionally tying each other’s shoes…) to some sort of genuine friendliness. This is, of course, friendly by the nature of their interactions rather than the nature of Louis’ feelings about Harry; he knows that wondering how the muscles of Harry’s forearm flex while he wanks is _not_ a friendly thought. In any case, Louis firmly believes it’s best to keep those thoughts to oneself and treat Harry like a friend, because Louis has never been a creepy asshole and his thoughts aren’t Harry’s responsibility.

He’s been brooding over this for sometime after he and Harry made their initial greeting that night, when Harry blessedly interrupts his rumination.

“So the other day,” Harry starts, “I was walking past that street round the corner, you know, the one with all the shops that are like, fifty years old and owned by families, all run down but obviously the owners love them, right,” Harry’s off on his rambling again but Louis doesn’t mind, as he is head over fucking heels and simply nods at him. Harry continues, “Yeah, so I was walking along there, it helps when I’m anxious or homesick, you know, all that atmosphere. And _anyway_ , I stopped at that little pet rescue place? The one that takes in all the—-the _defective_ ,” Harry says the word with a sneer, “animals that no one wants, like the old ones or the cranky cats that only want to be with one person or the three legged dogs or the parrot that’s plucked all its own feathers out from stress or the chinchilla that pisses whenever there’s a loud sound.” Harry’s slightly winded at the end of his tirade. Louis has the impression that Harry stops by the shop quite often, and that makes butterflies erupt in his stomach, and he wants to tell Harry why but also wants to let him finish his story first.

“Yeah, I know the place,” Louis says casually.

Harry beams. “Yeah, right, so like I was saying,” which Louis notes, Harry hadn’t really been saying his point at all but he doesn’t bring it up, “I stopped by there, and I’m looking at all these—these _living things_. And you know, this complex doesn’t let animals in but I honestly considered sneaking some in anyway. You know, all secret op-like.”

“Rescue Mission: Misfit Pets,” Louis responds, as it seems this is in fact the entirety of Harry’s story.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Harry says, laughing happily like he’s relieved Louis _gets_ his story or something. Harry takes a moment to transfer his washed clothing to the dryer, because he’d arrived before Louis. Louis startles a bit; he’d practically forgotten where they were, and adds soap to his own washer, starting it quickly. They’ve now got nothing to do but wait, and even though this how they’ve come to pass the time—staying in the room together, it feels different, like they’re actually _hanging out_ or something rather than awkwardly circling around each other. Louis feels juvenile just for thinking of the phrase “hanging out” but can’t come up with a better way to explain it.

“Right,” Louis says, sitting just at the edge of the center table, moreso leaning against it so his legs are stretched out and his feet are still firmly on the floor. “Which ones are you gonna sneak in, then?”

Harry hops up on the washer right across from Louis, so they’re facing each other and Louis is suddenly hyperaware of how _narrow_ the space is between the machines and the table. Harry mouth turns up halfway. “Well,” he says, voice slow as molasses, “I couldn’t actually do it.” He looks genuinely crestfallen, so much so Louis can practically feel it himself. “I mean, I’m sure like logistically, I could. But my place is so fucking small and I’m busy all the time and like, I couldn’t care for them proper on my own in this shite place, right? It wouldn’t be fair to the animals,” he sighs. It’s endearing, how much thought and care Harry has put into this fleeting musing about animals from a tiny rescue shop.

Harry’s hair seems more lank today, as if it’s been a day or two without a wash; Louis finds he doesn’t seem to care and—with a jolt of self-judgment—wonders if the smell of Harry is stronger because of it. His curls are still soft and long and dark, though, and Louis still thinks they’re beautiful. He’s also wearing long, plaid pajama bottoms that look very old, thin and faded; Louis wonders how soft they are and if they’re softer than Harry’s skin—probably not. He realizes he’s gone a beat or two without speaking because he’s been so busy ogling Harry, and feels guilty for it. “Well, that’s just now,” Louis responds, “when you’ve got a bigger place and more time, you can become a right Snow White with all your animals,” he says. “Is that your aspiration, then, to be a needy pet smuggler?”

Harry dimples at him sweetly. “Maybe part-time,” he says. He pauses for a moment. “But I’m actually in culinary school, right now. Training to be a chef or summat.” He’s tapping his fingers at the edge of the washer he’s sitting on, as though nervous.

There _is_ a culinary school just adjacent to the uni campus, Louis recalls. He’d just assumed Harry was a uni student same as him. “That’s sick, mate,” Louis says earnestly, because culinary school is different and challenging and from what he knows, a tight job outlook. “I’m in uni, planning to be a drama teacher, I think,” he says, because they seem to be sharing.  

Immediately, Harry’s face brightens. “You like kids?” He’s all rosy cheeks, and too-large front teeth, and ridiculous dimples, and fucking Disney-princess eyes and Louis _wants to kiss him._  Instead he replies, “Yeah, loads. And teaching, you know, getting to influence kids’ lives and like, learn from them. I dunno, it’s just great,” he finishes before he starts getting too emotional.

“Me too,” Harry says earnestly. “I used to work at this bakery, and I would make cupcakes special for kids, ask them what their favorite color or cartoon was or whatever. And like, I was a shit artist but they _loved_ them anyway. Also, to be honest, kids _know_ more than adults do.” It’s very introspective and deep for this late night laundromat small talk, and Louis feels like Harry’s sharing this much on purpose, like it means something. It unsettles Louis because Harry’s also so enigmatic and confusing, and Louis wants him with this wildness that makes him afraid he’s like, fucking projecting all of his shit onto Harry’s perfectly friendly conversation.

On the other hand, Harry is staring too intensely at Louis to be totally casual, even from an objective standpoint, so maybe— 

“There’s a hole in your shirt,” Harry blurts. It startles Louis and he flushes immediately. “Just there,” Harry goes on, pointing to a spot on his own collar, so that Louis does the same to his own and finds a tear right at the seam. He’s not even sure how it got there, and is even more embarrassed than he might be if some random person had pointed it out.

“Oh,” Louis mumbles, still reeling. It seems Harry is constantly pointing out all the ways Louis is, in fact, a fucking mess. He can’t for the life of him figure out why, especially because Harry never says it with any sort of maliciousness or crudeness and the rest of the time he’s sweeter than Louis’ favorite homemade cherry pie. He rolls his shoulders awkwardly, staring at this confusing boy with his too short t-shirt and his faded pajamas, his slightly dirty hair and his sock feet. “Yeah,” he says just for something to say.

The buzzer goes off on Harry’s dryer and Harry slips down from the washer he was perched on to dig out his clothing and dump it in his laundry bin. Louis watches the way his body moves beneath his clothing, and thinks about how this specimen of a human being is also the kind of person that takes the time to draw icing-cartoon characters on cupcakes just to make children happy. Jesus.

Louis fidgets awkwardly as Harry shuts the dryer and hoists his bin onto his hip. “Well,” he says, looking at Louis with guileless eyes, “see you next week, then?” He’s chewing at his lip casually, perhaps impatient to leave or nervous for reasons Louis can’t fathom. He’d wish it was because of himself, but every time he flirts with that idea, Harry points out some awkward detail about Louis and crashes the hope down.

“Yeah, mate,” Louis says dumbly, nodding like this is all cool and casual.

Harry strolls past him, to the door, and Louis thinks he’s gone, as he’s faced away from the entrance, when he hears Harry's voice. “Hey, Lou,” he calls softly, and Louis cranes his neck to look at him. “I think you’d make a great drama teacher.” He beams in that ridiculously dimply way and then he really is gone out the door.

Louis stares at his wash turning round and round in the machine and thinks a lot about Harry’s mouth.

\-- 

The following Wednesday, there’s another person doing their laundry at the same time as Harry and Louis. She has the harried look of a busy uni student with little time for chores, and Louis notes that she has several washers and dryers running at once, probably the product of delaying doing laundry until out of clothes entirely. Louis’ been there and nods at her sympathetically when she looks up briefly from the notebook she’s hovering over at the center table. “Sorry,” she says somewhat sheepishly, looking at the several appliances she’s taken over.

“No problem,” Louis responds easily, because there are still enough machines left available for both Harry and Louis to do their laundry—if Harry _does_  show up, as the room is depressingly empty of his presence thus far.

Louis dumps his wash into a machine and is considering nipping off to his room for the wait, without any reason to hang around, when Harry comes rushing into the room. He seems slightly out of breath as though he jogged to get here, and starts a breathless rant, “Sorry, sorry! My mum called and I—“ He stops when he notices the girl at the counter, clearing his throat awkwardly as though he’s exposed himself in some way. She looks only slightly confused at the outburst, which had sounded like Harry’d been late for a meeting or a _date_ , but she's more distracted by her studies.

“Hello,” Harry says politely.

The girl gives a small wave and friendly smile before ducking her head back down to her notebook.

Harry focuses back on Louis, looking a bit disoriented by the addition of company as though he’d had plans that had now been foiled. Louis shifts awkwardly on his feet, realizing they can’t really engage in their usual conversation, if not because of the awkwardness but because it would be rude with the girl doing her work right there. Still, he can’t quite bring himself to leave either. Harry walks haltingly over to the washer just next to Louis’, the only one left open, and begins to drop his clothing in one article at a time. It occurs to Louis that this is the closest they’ve been to each other, barring the unusual shoe lace incident, as Harry generally does his laundry at the machines opposite Louis’ own. He smells very good, a mix of masculine cologne and a light fruity smell, as if from shampoo or lotion. Louis is sweating slightly now.

Once finished putting his clothes in, Harry adds soap and starts the machine then pauses for a minute. He suddenly shifts to stand even closer to Louis, though Louis is facing the other direction, his back towards the machines whereas Harry is still facing forward. He’s wearing an overly baggy basketball-type shirt, so his arms are bare and part of his ribs are exposed as well. He’s so close their arms are pressed together. Louis chances at a glance at the girl, who’s thankfully still buried in her notebook.

Louis jolts when Harry turns his head so his lips are brushing alarmingly against Louis’ ear. He lifts his hand to grip just slightly around Louis’ elbow. It somehow feels extremely intimate. “Next week?”

Louis has no fucking idea what that means, it’s impossible to guess. Next week...what? He is aware that his body is lurching quickly into arousal and he fights turning his face more firmly into Harry’s own. “Okay,” he says, unsure what he’s affirming.

He feels rather than sees Harry smile in response, and he definitely feels when Harry turns to the side so his chest and torso are now touching Louis’ arm and flank. “Yay,” Harry murmurs, a laughing lilt to his voice, like he’s very pleased.

Louis feels remarkably unsteady and the impression of intimacy is growing by the second.

Abruptly, Harry pulls back and runs a hand through his hair. “You’ve got pen on your hand,” Harry comments, so casually Louis feels he’s just got whiplash.

Before Louis can even stutter his usual _uh,_  Harry is walking out of the room in long strides and Louis listens to the fervent scratch of the girl’s pen on her paper for a moment, before leaving himself as well. He and Harry don’t run into each other again that night.

\--

Harry doesn’t show up the next week, or the week after that.

\--

Harry is there the third Wednesday after the _Next week?_ incident, and Louis feels off kilter when he sees him. He’s sitting on the edge of the center table, the side nearest to the door and facing it as if expectant when Louis walks in. His legs are spread just wide enough Louis feels it’s a bit excessive for casually hanging about the laundry room, then feels badly for having that thought. Harry’s also wearing those same red shorts again, so that the insides of his thighs are extraordinarily exposed and Louis almost strains something trying not to stare.  

Harry seems to want to speak but bites his lips as if in restraint, looking at Louis with a slightly creased brow.  

Suddenly, Louis feels a bit peevish and cocks his head shortly at Harry. “Mate,” he says, going for nonchalant, and walking over to a washer in the far corner. Or, as far as the tiny space really extends. He keeps his back turned away from Harry.

“Lou,” Harry says, sounding almost plaintive.

“Harry,” Louis responds, still turned away. He’s not sure what’s got him stroppy but he isn’t quite fancying cheering up either. There’s a silence in which Louis tries not to listen to Harry’s breathing and fails fantastically, noting it’s quick and slightly louder than usual. He’s putting the last of his wash in when Harry speaks again.

“Your tag is sticking up,” his voice is slow and gentle as ever, as though he’s musing peacefully.

Louis is not feeling _peaceful_ at all.

“ _Jesus_ ,” he snaps, turning round, surprised to see Harry’s moved to sit at the corner nearer to Louis. His legs are still spread widely and his lips appear to be bright red, as though from being gnawed at nervously. He’s so fucking hot that Louis feels his frustration and bad mood peak. “D’you always point out people’s flaws, like on the regular? Or is it just me, _mate_? Cos it’s not really very kind of you, to be honest. If you can’t say something nice and whatnot.” He wants to kiss Harry’s neck so badly his own lips tingle from want. Ignoring this, he crosses his arms in agitation.

Harry’s eyes have gone quite wide, whereas his legs have closed tightly. “Is that what you want? Me to say nothing at all?”

He sounds level-headed, but there’s a strain to it, so that Louis can just hear the hurt underneath it. He feels a bit remorseful, but actually is left amiss by Harry’s insistent calling attention to Louis’ flaws, as though that’s all he can see of Louis. It stings because all Louis can see of Harry is how lovely he is, every inch of him. “I just want to do my laundry,” he says resignedly, turning back to the wash to put detergent in before Harry can respond.

There’s a beat and then a shuffle as Harry stands up from the table and steps close to Louis’ back. “'Kay,” Harry says, sounding quite small. Louis feels just the ghost of Harry’s fingertips at the back of his neck, hovering hesitantly, giving Louis room to move away from the touch. Louis doesn’t, though he’s not sure what Harry’s trying to do.

Then he feels Harry’s fingers very gently tucking Louis’ tag back into the collar of his shirt, a light movement that barely dips his fingertips to Louis’ skin. Louis feels his skin break into goosebumps and wonders if Harry notices. “'Kay,” Harry repeats.

And then he’s gone from the room. 

\--

When Louis arrives the following Wednesday, he half expects Harry not to be there and feels a crushing wave of relief when he sees Harry standing at one washer at the side, dumping clothing in methodically. He’s wearing sweatpants cut off into shorts and a light pink shirt, long-sleeved and made of very soft looking material. It strikes Louis how much longer Harry’s hair has gotten since they began their laundry night routine, brushing a good inch past Harry’s collar. He’s sock footed again. Fuck, but Louis wants to hold him.

He doesn’t know if Harry hears him enter and doesn’t know what to say either, so he strides awkwardly towards the washer next to Harry. Apparently, Harry hadn’t heard him come in because he jumps a little when Louis appears. “Hey, Harry,” Louis says, going for amicable and surprising himself at how gentle his voice is, beyond friendly and somehow revealing how _fond_ he is. He bites his lip and refrains from covering it up with a quip or small talk. It must be obvious by now, anyway.

Harry is silent, but shifts his elbow a little too purposefully, so that it brushes against Louis’ bicep. He continues dropping articles of clothing into the washer and Louis waits a few moments, trying not to fidget anxiously, before starting in on his own laundry.

Harry very carefully places the last few pieces in the washer and methodically closes and starts the machine. Only then does he turn so his back is to the washer, gripping the edge with his hands and his elbows bent slightly, an echo of how he’d stood next to Louis a month earlier. This time, he’s left an inch of space between them, and Louis peers to the side to see Harry turn his face up and scrunch his eyes up.

“I don’t just notice your... _flaws_ ,” Harry seems to force the word out, as though displeased with it. “I notice like, _everything_. Like, I watch all of you and m’afraid I’m being fucking creepy or that you’ll notice or summat, and so it’s easier to point out the stuff that is like, okay to see, I guess? I dunno. And then, I guess, I wanted you to know how much I watch you, and so I just kept saying that shite, to—to see if you knew, or whatever. And I only disappeared because I was _nervous_ , okay, it’s so _dumb_ but there it is, and anyway. Fuck, you _are_ just here to do laundry and I don’t wanna to... _presume_ or anything. It’s so hard to talk to you sometimes too because—because I want, um.” He seems to run out of steam then, fidgeting with the collar his soft shirt, which is worn and deeply scooped so Louis can see the deep flush of his chest, burning red to match his cheeks, and slightly slick with sweat.

Louis very calmly finishes putting soap into the washer and starting it up, before turning to stand in the same stance as Harry beside him. His heart feels like it’s about to explode. This is ridiculous, he’s _twenty fucking two_ , and he somehow feels like he’s fifteen again, stumbling around with heart eyes at his crush. “You want…?” He hedges.

Abruptly, Harry is huffing in obvious frustration, and practically growling at him through clenched teeth, “Oh, _come on_ , you know exactly what I mean, don’t fuck around with me like this.” He sounds about how Louis had felt last week and Louis doesn’t take it too personally.

“No,” Louis interrupts Harry, before he can continue, “I need to hear you say it. I need to know I’m not making a grand mistake when I kiss you, because I’ve fucked up and mixed up what I want with whatever it is you want.” He’s unsurprised by how shaky his voice is, but means every word. And, admittedly, he craves the electric validation he’ll get from hearing _it_ from Harry’s mouth, if it’s what he thinks _it_ is. 

“I want you, you shithead,” Harry breathes out, no fury behind the words, only obvious adoration.

“Thank fucking fuck,” Louis mutters and whirls round to face Harry and crowd him up against the washer, grabbing his hips until he’s sitting on the edge and Louis can fit himself between his spread knees. He grips tightly just above them, scratching at fine hairs and soft skin, until Harry groans almost inaudibly under his breath. Louis nudges at Harry’s nose with his own, very gently, and then presses their mouths together.

Harry’s so _soft_ , and Louis can feel that endearing pattern of breathing puffing against his face from Harry’s nose, and the weight of Harry’s forearms as he loops them over his shoulders. Harry tugs him closer, as close as they can get in this stance and turns his head this way and that, trying to deepen the kiss in tandem with the closeness of their bodies. He’s intoxicating, absolutely intoxicating, so much so that Louis feels _drunk_ on him. He’s helpless but to run his hands up Harry’s thighs, over his quads and sharp hipbones, his stomach and his chest. He caresses his neck and then cradles the sides of Harry’s face, dropping one hand back down to Harry’s waist, feeling slightly like he’s mauling Harry but unable to stop himself. “Christ, you’re so _fit_ ,” he mumbles into their kisses, making it messy as Harry determinedly licks at his lips through the words.

Louis drops his head to mouth at Harry’s neck, to tug at the frayed collar of his shirt and drag his lips over his collarbone too. He wishes he had a way to describe how much he wants Harry besides _hungry,_ because that’s vaguely disturbing, but there’s no better word. He wants to _devour_ Harry, and tries his best to do so by sucking at Harry's neck when Harry drops his head back, gasping erratically, trying to catch his breath. He’s scratching his nails across Louis’ shoulder blades, a dull pressure through his t-shirt. “Yeah?” Harry groans, sounding blitzed. “You think so?”  

“You’re _irresistible_ ,” Louis says honestly, dragging his tongue up Harry’s throat and hearing him fucking _whine_ for it. He feels slightly like he’s said something straight out of a trashy romance novel, but can’t care too much, because he means it beyond a doubt and because it makes Harry rumble with pleasure deep in his chest, almost like a purr. Louis feels nearly frantic with frustration, like he can’t get Harry close enough, clumsy in his movements as he plunges one hand up Harry’s shirt to pet at sweaty skin and another in Harry’s thick hair, gripping it tight. 

In response, Harry ducks a hand down the back of Louis’ collar, scratching at his skin properly and making Louis hiss. Harry drops his head forward at the noise, and offers the mostly obscenely sexy smile Louis has ever seen in life, all blown eyes and puffy lips and shiny forehead. Harry digs his nails in further for a moment before soothing the sting with a drag of his palm over his skin. “Don’t try to resist, then,” Harry says, voice all gravel and velvet. “Can’t even explain how much I want you.”

This is the shit straight out of movies and porn, people don’t talk like this in real life, people don’t feel this electric in real life, no one has this much chemistry in real life. But this _is_ real life, all of these things are _happening_. “I wanna get you off,” Louis pants, flitting a hand over the tented front of Harry’s sweatpants; it’s clear he’s not wearing anything underneath and that’s he got a big fucking cock. “I—I know we haven’t even _dated_ yet and like...I don’t want this to be a one off, okay? So—so we can wait or whatever but like you should just know I really, _really_  want to make you come.”

Harry bucks his hips up, though Louis’ placed his hand back on Harry’s waist and there’s only empty air to meet him. “We’ve had Chinese food together,” he says, breathless, “that’s a date, that was _totally_ a date, like—“

He’s cut off because Louis’ pushed his hand under his waistband. His wrist bumps the heavy hot steel of Harry’s cock but he refrains from gripping it, instead brushing his fingers along the delicate skin of Harry’s pelvis, the juncture of his thighs where tendons strain with the spread of his legs; he combs them through the short, neatly trimmed curls at the base of his cock. Harry snaps his hips up again. “Thought you were gonna get me off,” he moans, “you’re just giving me fucking blue balls.”

Louis grins and wraps his hand around his dick, feeling his own throb at the sensation. “God, I can’t wait to see this cock,” he mumbles, almost to himself, “‘s so big.” He’s tempted to pull it out here, but they are still in the _public_  complex laundry room, and even just this is more risky and wild than anything he’s done in the past. Besides, there is something hot about the frantic suggestion of it all, the evidence of how unable they are to wait that they’re just going for it with clothes still on and everything.

Harry actually whimpers at Louis’ comment and drops his head forward to rest on Louis’ shoulder and watch the movement of his fist beneath his sweatpants. “That’s—that’s so _good_ , keep going, c’mon,” Harry says, sounding slightly delirious. The faster Louis pulls at him the more musky Harry smells, the heat and friction beneath his sweatpants encouraging perspiration and his natural scent. Louis feels it when Harry first blurts out precome, feels the slickness and the restless turning of Harry’s head on his shoulder. “Oh, fuck,” Harry mutters, “oh, _fuck_.”

“I want you to come so bad,” Louis whispers, biting his lips and feeling almost near tears with how much he wants it. “Harry, I really—I want you to come, okay, shit. Just—just come, please.” He tugs harder at Harry’s cock, his palm and fingers sticky with precome now, he’s so fucking _wet_ , and the smell of him is permeating Louis’ every inhale. Louis buries his face into the side of Harry’s neck, pressing his open mouth to the salt of his skin and moaning loudly. “Come on,” he whispers, dropping his hand down momentarily to cradle Harry’s heavy balls. “God, can feel how full you are,” he stutters, grabbing at Harry’s cock again and stroking desperately.

“ _Shit_ ,” Harry rumbles, “shit, shit, shit.” He’s fucking his hips up now, meeting Louis’ every downstroke. “Gonna _come_ ,” he whines, all high pitched and lovely, “m’gonna, I—I’m gonna come, Lou.”

Louis fumbles his free hand to push at Harry’ shoulder until he tilts his head up, then pulls him in for a kiss, pressing determinedly into his mouth, relishing perhaps too much in the way Harry can’t catch his breath. He grips Harry’s chin when he feels Harry’s cock start to twitch, and pushes his face back enough to look at him. His eyes are so dark they’re nearly black and his mouth hangs open slightly, he looks so dazed it makes Louis' heart skip a beat. He moves his thumb, keeping his fingers tucked under Harry’s chin, and hooks it inside Harry’s slack lower lip. Immediately, Harry’s mouth closes around it and he suckles slightly, gentle pressure that feels self-indulgent. “Gonna come?” Louis murmurs.

Harry nods, the sweetest whimpers working deep in his throat.

“You can do it, babe,” Louis encourages, “you’re doing so good, _c’mon_.” He feels absolutely filthy, he’s never spoken this way to anyone before, but it’s impossible to stop himself with Harry. “Gonna feel so good, want this big dick to shoot off—“

Harry wrenches his mouth away from Louis’ hand, tossing his head back and pushing his hips up, his chest forward. “ _Fuuuck_ ,” Harry draws the word out, then drops his head forward again, staring down at his lap. “Don’t _stop_ , don’t stop, don’t stop,” he chants. A bit of drool drops down onto his sweatpants and Louis can’t believe how fucking hot that alone makes him.

“Oh,” Harry says in a tiny voice, placing his hand over the front of his sweatpants, so that Louis’ hand bumps it on each upward stroke. “Oh, I’m _coming_ , oh _fuck_.” Then he is—his dick is jerking in Louis’ hand and there’s searing hot pulses of come everywhere, he can feels wads of it hitting his fingers, sticking to the rustling fabric of his sweatpants, dripping to the curls at the base of his cock. He finally stops shooting off and Louis wants to taste him while he’s still burning and drippy and eagerly pulls his hand out to lick it, all bitter and salty and thick and making him moan. 

“God,” Harry says, soft and wide eyed, staring at him. “God,” he repeats. He still has his hand resting lightly on the front of his sweatpants and Louis watches him flatten his palm down, adding pressure and circling just slightly. His hips jerk at the obvious sensitivity but he grips there anyway, as if—as if he’s enjoying the feel of the sticky mess, of his hot, raw cock. _Fuck_ , who is this boy? Louis pushes Harry's hand away, using his own split slick one to cup his now almost completely soft cock through the fabric, to feel the slickness for himself. It’s unbearably hot, feeling the filthiness they’ve created with just one handjob. Harry circles his hips up twice then drops down with a satisfied whimper-sigh. Louis squeezes his soft cock once just to hear Harry squeak then moves his hand to Harry’s thigh.

“C’n I—“ Harry drawls, but Louis cuts him off.

“Not gonna last,” he says honestly. It’ll take him two strokes to get off, at best. “Just let—let me.” He drops to his knees by way of explanation, and Harry looks confused for a second until Louis presses his face into the junction of Harry’s thigh and pelvis, turning so he’s centimeters away from where Harry’s dick lies soft and sticky, the front of his sweatpants just barely visibly damp. Then, he inhales deeply and moans gutterly at the heavy, musky, and sharp smell of Harry sweat and come. It’s so thick in his nose, his open mouth. He keeps inhaling deeply and frantically, his lower abdominals convulsing in response. So, Harry’s scent _might_ be a thing for Louis.

He can tell the second Harry understands. “Oh my _God_ ,” Harry says, too loud for this communal laundry room. “That’s so fucking hot, oh my god.”

Louis whines and dips his hand into his joggers. True to his word, it only takes a single stroke to have him shooting off so fast and good he bites into Harry’s fabric covered inner thigh just to bear it. The slippery material of his joggers don’t hold onto the come well so it ends up all over his palm and knuckles, so sticky it strings between them when he pulls his hand out and spreads his fingers a bit. He makes to wipe them on his shirt when Harry clumsily maneuvers his way down to collapse next to Louis. “Mine,” Harry rasps and grasps Louis’ wrist, licking obscenely at his hand and sucking until it’s clean.

They pant there for a minute, as if frozen in the moment, before simultaneously falling back against the washer, Harry half slumped over Louis’ side. Louis flops one hand up to pet clumsily at Harry’s curls before dropping it back down exhaustedly to the curve of his hip and arse.

“Well,” Harry says, just as Louis mutters, “So.”

They both chuckle a little breathlessly for a moment. “You first,” Louis says, “you came first, I‘ve had less time to like...recover.”

Harry snorts and kisses sloppily at Louis’ shoulder, but acquiesces to his request. “We should—keep doing that. But also I want dates. Like outside of here? Date me and fuck me and I’ll be happy,” he sounds so sex-drunk and pleased it makes Louis ache. He wants to see how often he can make Harry sound like that, and he wants to see how Harry sounds during dinner at a nice-by-uni-standards restaurant, and how Harry sounds when he gets flowers from Louis for no particular occasion, and how Harry sounds when he wakes up in the morning.

“Yeah, okay,” Louis says. “Just—just so we’re clear like, if I’m dating you then I mean...I want only you. I’m all in; this fucking laundry room got me head over heels for you, yeah? So I want to date only you and fuck only you and I’ll be happy,” he finishes.

“Well, of course,” Harry replies, sounding mildly affronted that he would suggest anything otherwise, but mostly very sweet and giddy. “And we keep doing laundry together.”

Louis laughs, tugging Harry further into his lap so he can kiss his forehead. “Never gonna stop, babe,” Louis assures him. “Made a New Year’s resolution, I did.”

Harry hums in mild interest but is rapidly growing more boneless against Louis, absolutely exhausted. They sit there in quiet until Harry remarks, out of the blue, “You wanna sniff my laundry before I wash it every week, Mr. Scent Kink?” Louis smacks his arm like he’s being ridiculous and tries not to think about the part of him that is actually tempted by the idea.

It’s jarring when the buzzers for their washes go off, reminding them of where they are and how long they’ve really been at it. “Shit,” Harry says, whiny like a two year old denied ice cream for dinner. “I don’t wanna.” Louis laughs and tangles his fingers with Harry’s.

“Come off it, you lazy sod,” Louis teases, “it takes three minutes to stand up and move the clothes.”

Harry whines again, this time like Louis’ missed his whole point. “No,” Harry clarifies, “I’m still in like, _the bubble_ ,” he says, gesturing between them. “If we get up, the bubble will be popped and then it’ll just be us standing around in our jizz pants waiting for _laundry_. The washer is ruining my bubble.”

Louis can’t help himself from smiling; could a person be more endearing? Harry’s right, though, Louis reflects immediately after processing Harry’s sweetness, the _bubble_ will be popped and then they’ll each just have to go back to their own apartments—

Louis is struck with a moment of genius. “Hey,” he says. He pulls at Harry until he’s straddling his lap, smelling like dried sweat and come and deliciousness. He rakes a hand through Harry’s hair. “I have _great_ cold pizza in me fridge, at my place,” he says, pecking kisses across Harry’s cheeks and nose, his mouth. Harry brings his hands up to rest on Louis’ shoulders, the beginnings of a smile stretching lips. “And the nature channel, and a shitty second-hand futon,” he continues on, drawling out each of the words, so his accent is even thicker. “We could just wait out the hour for the dryer there.”

“You had me at cold pizza,” Harry murmurs, tucking his body closer to Louis. Louis has never cared less about the discomfort of dried come in his pants.

Patting Harry’s bum once, Louis nudges him until Harry shifts back and stands up with a long-suffering groan. “I’m only getting up for the cold pizza,” he says mutinously as he moves to transfer his laundry to a dryer. Louis hauls himself up off the floor, sympathizing greatly with Harry’s offense at the existence of the laundry machine buzzer.

“I promise it won’t disappoint,” Louis assures him, knocking his shoulder against Harry’s.

As soon as their respective dryers are closed and started, they both sort of stumble gracelessly over to the doorway; taking far too many detours than should be possible in the tiny space.  Louis kisses Harry against the machine one more time, then against the table, and then against the wall by the door. Harry melts like butter each time and during the last, slings his thigh around Louis’ hip, arching up beautifully when Louis scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip. “I don’t want to stop touching you,” Louis admits, running his hands greedily over Harry’s body. “I don’t want to stop being near you,” he says, even softer.

Harry very nearly purrs with contentment at that and rolls his body again. “I know,” he says quietly. He tucks his head against Louis’ shoulder, turning the press of their bodies into something sweeter, less charged. “I just like talking to you, really,” Harry murmurs.

“Me too, babe,” Louis says, “I want to learn everything about you.”

Harry mouths at Louis’ neck, humming softly. “Let’s start with the cold pizza,” he says, flirty and sweet, “and then you can tell me about that New Years resolution bit; I heard that.” He bites playfully at Louis neck and drops his head back so he can look at Louis; he looks both well-fucked and playful, sparkly-eyed. “Maybe we can involve the futon for dessert,” he teases, scrunching his nose.

It’s _such_ a cheesy, dumb line but it makes Louis’ heart flutter anyway and the pit of his stomach drop hot and heavy, so he kisses Harry in response. “Sounds fucking perfect,” he says, meaning it, and squeezing Harry’s thigh to punctuate each word.

Harry giggles, a bright, wild sound and wriggles out from under Louis, taking his wrist and pulling him out the door, even though they’re going to Louis’ flat and Harry’s already walking in the wrong direction. Rolling his eyes fondly, Louis pulls at Harry and takes him down the hall to his flat, ready for anything and everything he and Harry will have.

He’s so fucking glad he kept his New Year’s resolution.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos make my day, week, and year; comments are my greatest source of joy! I try to reply to as many as possible as quickly as I can!
> 
> If you'd like, you can reblog the tumblr post for this fic [here](http://thelovejandles.tumblr.com/post/176180901950/laundry-room-author-beautlouis-thelovejandles) or the post with the far superior edit made by another user, right [here!](http://matchingbees.tumblr.com/post/176416633748/favorite-fics-15-title-laundry-room)
> 
> This actually has an entire half of what could be a short sequel already written, that was originally going to be put in the fic altogether, but I felt it was an awkward extension past the natural ending. Please let me know if you think I should finish and post the sequel, either in the comments or in my ask on my blog [here](http://thelovejandles.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> And I really do promise the second and final chapter of "knock knock, i love you" is on its way!!!


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